New Year's Traditions
by IronAmerica
Summary: Scales escapes from Owl Island on New Year's Eve, leading Vince to discover an unusual holiday tradition the smuggler has kept for nineteen years.


Hey, it's a new story for the New Year! Enjoy, folks!

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o -

New Year's Tradition

Vince had been enjoying a rare break from being a vigilante when the call came in. He was almost tempted to ignore the call when it came through; after all, the chances he got to relax and drink a cold beer with his partner were getting fewer and far between now. (There were also fewer opportunities to visit Trip, as Dana had started seeing _Jack_, apparently having finally moved on.)

And then Orwell told him the call was from Portman. Apparently, Scales had somehow broken out of solitary confinement, scaled the twelve foot wall surrounding the prison…and dropped off the face of the earth. Fifteen minutes after the escape was discovered, Portman had sent a call to Orwell, hoping he could enlist the Cape's help in recapturing the smuggler before ARK got wind of it.

The vigilante, with a few muttered swear words, pulled his costume on. Orwell handed him his headset as he left the lair.

"Be safe out there, Vince," she said. Vince smiled at her and pulled his hood up before straddling the motorcycle he'd acquired a few days ago.

Orwell watched the taillight fade into the distance before returning to her computer set-up. She could monitor the situation from there, and pray that Scales appeared on a camera soon. The blogger really didn't want to know what would happen to Portman (or her partner) if daddy got hold of Scales first. This was just the thing Fleming was looking for to get the prisons under his control…

- o -

It was nearly midnight when Orwell contacted Vince again. Scales had been spotted, heading for (of all the strange places) a graveyard. According to the sighting, he'd been carrying something. It could have been a gun case or even a bundle of roses. Whatever it was, Orwell advised Vince that he should consider Scales to be armed and dangerous.

"Orwell," Vince said, "I already know that. Besides, even without the gun he's a menace." The vigilante winced and rubbed his ribs, remembering how the deformed smuggler had thrown him off the side of a moving train.

"_I'm just worried about you Vince,_" Orwell replied. "_I don't want to see you ending up in a morgue. Think about what would happen to Dana and Trip…_" It was a low blow, admittedly, but it worked. Vince had to concede defeat to that. (Of course, he'd stolen Orwell's tazer on his way out of the lair, so that had to count for something…)

"Thanks Orwell," Vince said quietly. He paused, thinking. There were seventeen graveyards in Palm City, five of them within walking distance of the harbor. If Scales were on foot and carrying a package, he'd be limited to at least three—maybe less.

"_He's heading for North Harbor, last I saw,_" Orwell said, almost as if she'd read Vince's mind. "_I'll keep you updated. Damn graveyards need to install cameras…_" Vince grinned and stifled a laugh as he took a left onto Chandler Boulevard. North Harbor was a decent place, if you didn't mind sleeping with an assault rifle next to you. He'd been assigned to that precinct for a few months—it hadn't been pleasant, and his superior had gotten fed up with the excuses he'd been fed. (It hadn't necessarily been a good thing that Vince had gone straight from a combat zone to police duty in Palm City's local hellhole.)

Fifteen minutes later, Vince had parked the motorcycle, a newer model Indian Chief, behind the groundskeeper's shack on the edge of the graveyard. Despite the fact that the motorcycle was faster, Vince felt it would be safer to approach on foot. Stealth mattered more than speed right now, and…

The vigilante froze, crouched low to the ground to minimize the target he presented. He listened hard for a few seconds and frowned. It had sounded like someone was playing music, but… No, the only person who'd come near the graveyard in the last hour was Scales—and he'd had Orwell check for any arrivals in the past day on his way over. Scales was the only one who'd come by.

Vince shook his head, frowning. There was no way Scales could be _that_ abysmally stupid…

He sighed and continued his slow pace towards the sound of violin music. The vigilante couldn't quite place the tune, but... Well, it did sound familiar, for some reason. Maybe it was something Dana listened to when she worked.

What the vigilante found when he reached the small hill overlooking the area Scales was in surprised him. Scales was standing in front of a small, innocuous looking grave stone, playing a violin. It was apparent he was focusing completely on his work, or he would have heard the nuisance that was the Cape approaching.

Vince grinned, wishing he had a camera. Given what he knew about the smuggler, he knew this show of emotion would have destroyed the man. Still, it was…nice. Who was he playing for, anyways? An old, dead girlfriend?

He stepped forward and swore as a dry branch under his foot cracked. His back-up from Owl Island was fifteen minutes away, from what Orwell had told him. This wasn't going to end well…

"Who th' effin' 'ell is out a' this hour?" Scales said loudly, disturbing a few birds in the tree above Vince. The smuggler put the violin and bow down gently, before reaching underneath his coat. Vince swore under his breath. Of course the smuggler would have taken the time to get outfitted properly. Why hadn't he brought a gun with him? Or something more useful at a long range than the cloak?

Seeing no other option, Vince stepped out of the shadows. Scales' face tightened in ill-disguised fury, before the expression disappeared. The smuggler laughed, a playful grin on his face.

"Dinnit t'ink it'd 'ave taken this long f'r the all-mighty Cape t' find me," Scales drawled, crossing his arms. He gestured to the violin. "Does 'is 'ighness mind if I finish?"

Vince stared at the smuggler. What? Was Scales drunk, or something? Something was up… There was no way Scales would have broken out of prison, just to play a song for some dead chick on New Year's Eve. Maybe the smuggler was formulating a plan for his escape…

The vigilante growled something under his breath and strode forward. He grabbed Scales' arm, and was immediately grateful for the fact that he was one—a fast mover, and two, Scales had finished the song. If he hadn't been fast, Scales' massive fist would have crashed right into his jaw. If Scales hadn't finished the song, he would have reacted faster, instead of concentrating on putting the violin back in the case.

The former police officer stared at the headstone, eyes wide in surprise. Who was Ray Grayson to Scales? He'd never heard of the man before, and it didn't sound like the man was one of the former gang lords…

Scales hauled the vigilante upright, a look of disgust and anger on his face.

"Fuck. Off," he snarled quietly.

Vince fell gracelessly to the ground after Scales let go of his mantle. He stood up again, brushing grass off the cloak. "Who was Grayson?" he asked, throwing caution to the wind.

Scales stared at him, before sighing. "Me dad," the smuggler said quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Vince was pretty sure the smuggler was drunk. There was no way the man was sharing this information willingly.

"'E died, twenty years ago t' the day. Drunk driver jumped the curb." Scales stared down at his shoes. "I've kept this tradition f'r the last nineteen." The deformed smuggler smiled at the gravestone. "'E woulda killed me f'r becomin' a criminal, instead o' tryin' t' enter an orchestra…"

Vince grinned. This blackmail was going to be too good to pass up. Still, he had to return Scales to jail, and from the lights at the fence, his backup was here.

"I ain't wearin' th' bracelets," Scales said, breaking into Vince's thoughts. "Bu' I will come quiet-like. Don' want violence around the old man." With that, he walked towards the edge of the graveyard, violin case tucked under one arm.

Vince stared after the smuggler's retreating back. Okay then… Maybe this was all just a weird dream induced by the greasy take-out he'd been eating for the last week. Well, Scales was back in custody, no one was dead, and he could return to the lair.

- o – o -

Scales stared up at the shelf above his cot, a small smile on his face. Portman had been surprised at how…cooperative he was being. Maybe he'd start a riot sometime next week, just to keep the old man off balance. Nah.

He'd keep quiet. After all, the man had let him keep the violin in his cell, and there was no reason to make solitary confinement dull again. After a few seconds, he sat up and pulled the violin down. The smuggler tucked the instrument underneath his chin, closed his eyes, and began playing.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Wondering if Ray will be alive in the Time Again timeline? Drop a line and let me know!


End file.
